


The Magnus Alliance

by SoUhhIGuessImHereNow



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn, im probably forgetting people/things to tag but whatever, ships aren't happening until later probably, some characters wont appear til later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoUhhIGuessImHereNow/pseuds/SoUhhIGuessImHereNow
Summary: For Martin Blackwood, a caretaker, waiter, and occasional con-man, becoming an avatar in a world that both worships and fears them is the worst thing that could have happened. Out of a job, with rent and his mother's medical bills to pay, he decides to join the Magnus Alliance, a group of avatars and humans dedicated to protecting citizens from any lasting harm. But as he and his new coworkers are about to find out, the Alliance's purpose isn't quite as magnanimous as they claim...
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 125
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is my first time writing fanfiction, or just fiction, ever, and it's probably gonna show. So I guess if someone does end up reading this, please feel free to leave constructive criticism! And uhhh, I hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin gets a surprise visit while at work.

Chapter 1 - Martin

Martin’s in a restaurant when his life is officially ruined.

He’s not having dinner, much as he wishes he was. No, he’s simply serving other patrons. Even after his... experience, earlier in the week, he still has all of his odd jobs to do, to keep up rent and pay his mother’s medical bills. Besides, if everyone stopped working every time they had a supernatural encounter, nothing would get done. It’d be like trying to call a sick day because you had spring allergies. Just an unpleasant, unavoidable fact of life.

Besides, he’s felt... strangely good, the last week. Better than he has in a long time.

He’s setting some food down in front of a family, a pair of tired looking women and two young children. The kids look like they’ve been giving their mothers hell, if the amount of noise they’re currently making is anything to go by. So he’s brought some crayons and coloring sheets with him, hoping to give them something of a break. They smile gratefully at him, but the children remain unimpressed.

“We already did these in school,” says the boy petulantly. The girl nods her agreement. “We aren’t stupid. We know all our constellations.”

“Uh,” Martin says, a little taken aback. Are kids usually this rude? He racks his brain for something else to distract them with, and remembers a time when his mother was kinder and his father was still there. When she’d give him something to do, not just tell him to shut up. Like tell him to-

“Well, yeah,” he says, as though that had been obvious. “Of course you do. But did you know-” And here, he leans down towards them, glances side to side conspiratorially, and brings a hand up to the side of his mouth in a faux whisper- “that if you look at the sky, look _really_ close, sometimes you can see Skyblue at work? He’ll be doing his painting, waiting to make a big reveal when another avatar is created. They don’t teach you that, in school. Here.” He reaches over and pulls up the blinds on the window, and they immediately press their faces and hands against it. He’ll probably have to wipe it down later, but for now, they’re distracted. He turns away, waving off the thanks of the parents, and is about to go to his next table when he hears two little gasps.

“There’s a new painting! In the sky! It just appeared!”

They are loud enough that the effect on the restaurant is instantaneous: blinds are immediately thrown up, the white noise of easy-going chatter shifts to a dizzying cacophony of excited shouts and murmurs, phones are taken out and _snap_ s fill the air as everyone tries to document the change in the night. Martin looks back, and has to withhold a gasp of his own.

It’s beautiful, as all of Simon Fairchild’s works are. Stars have appeared and disappeared, rearranging themselves to show the profile of a man kneeling in front of the pre-existing art of a triumphant Annabelle Cane, with nebulas shading him and filling in details. It’d almost look like he was begging for mercy, if it wasn’t for the spindly legs that sneak out of his back, holding puppet strings around her wrists.

Eight stars twinkle where his eyes should be.

Martin, for his part, feels a strange sense of dread as he stares at it. He shouldn’t. There’s no reason he should be worried. It’s impossibly full of hubris, in fact, for him to even have the sinking feeling in his gut that he does now, except-

Except.

Except that the new constellation looks so familiar, and all he can think of is a week ago, when he-

The doors blast open with a rush of wind, and a tiny old man in painter’s overalls excitedly breezes into the room, interrupting him in the middle of his thoughts. He’s followed by a much calmer, much younger, but still as short man wearing a scarf and overcoat, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He looks bored, but the older man bounds into the center of the room, right up to Martin, with all the excitement of a child.

“There he is!” Martin looks behind himself, briefly, because he still can’t quite believe he’s unfortunate enough for this to be real. This disillusion is broken when the man jumps up and puts an arm around his shoulder- an impressive feat, considering their difference in size, until he realizes that the old man is floating a good foot and a half off the ground. He finds himself being guided over to the window. “So what’d you think, lad? Impressive, huh? Anabelle will be rather upset about hers, of course, but I think it was high time somebody deflated her ego a bit. Serves her right.”

The previous noise of the restaurant has died to a deathly quiet with the arrival of the newcomers, so his voice rings loud and clear. Martin’s still holding out some hope that maybe he misheard, though. “I’m- I’m sorry?” The man’s eyes harden to a manic glint, and his companion, who’d been leaning against the doorframe until now, gets up and begins to casually stroll over. Martin hastens to correct himself. “I- I mean, it’s gorgeous, of course, it’s- it’s incredible. But, um, why are you asking me?” As an afterthought, even though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer, he adds, “And, uh, who are you?”

The old man frowns at him, but responds nonetheless. “Well, I’m Simon Fairchild, as you must know. And this is my apprentice, Mike Crew.” Mike gives a small jerk of his head that’s anything but friendly. “And I would think the reason I’m asking you would be obvious. It’s not everyday a new avatar is born, much less one of the Web.” At this, he gives a theatrical sigh and shakes his head. “Of course, I would have preferred the Vast, but alas. I’m sure the Mother will be happy to have you, though the same couldn’t be said for Anabelle.” He grins in a way that makes him think of a monkey about to yank your hair. “She’ll be pissed.”

Martin could not afford for this to happen right now.

Alright, so maybe he’d done some things that seemed a little improbable at the time. Fine! He can admit that! But a week later, after plenty of time to rationalize and reconvince himself, he’d come to the conclusion that there was some trick of the light, some missed dialogue, some panic that had made things a little blurry. And even if- even if he had become something else, right now, he really could not risk the alienation and fear that’s bound to happen as a result. He has his mother to take care, he can’t lose his income.

Simon is still staring at him, waiting for some type of response. When he doesn’t get one, he adds, somewhat uncertain, “You... You are Martin Blackwood, yes?”

Martin does what he does best: Lie.

“Oh.” He schools his face into an apologetic expression. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. You must be looking for my cousin.” He laughs, and gives it a nervous, slightly tense quality to make it more realistic (which isn’t hard to do, considering the situation). Sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “Everyone always has difficulty telling us apart at family reunions, sometimes even our parents.” He pauses, and decides to reiterate the point, just to play it safe. “I’m not who you’re looking for. Again, I’m so, so sorry for the confusion... Can I get you a bottle of wine, for your trouble? I can go grab some from-”

“No, that’s... that’s alright.” Simon’s brow is furrowed, and he looks confused, his earlier manic energy drained out of him. Mike is frowning, looking between him and Martin, but he hasn’t said anything yet. “I... hm. I could have sworn... But it’s no matter.” Cheer comes back into his tone, though it sounds somewhat forced. “Well! 500 years old, and I’m just only starting to go senile! Must be a record.” The silence is resounding, and after a moment, he adds lightly, “You’re supposed to laugh at jokes, you know.” Delayed titters echo through the restaurant, but the space feels too big, suddenly, for them to fill it. Simon continues. “I suppose we’ll just be on our way, then.” Martin tries not to exhale too loudly in relief.

And maybe he shouldn’t have started to turn away, turned his back to two beings with more power than the rest of the diners combined, but he’s eager to get out of that room, into the kitchen, away from all the prying, accusing eyes. So he doesn’t realize, until it’s too late, what’s about to happen. He doesn’t realize until he hears the shrill little screams, two children yelling for their mothers, and something inside him feels so very, very cold as strings suddenly erupt into the air.

“ **What did you do?** ” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. There’s an anger in it that he’s never dared to express before, an edge that demands to be listened to. The children are holding tight to each other, and their parents are dragging them away from the duo, horror clear on their wide eyes and parted lips. Simon Fairchild takes back his outstretched hand from where it had been patting them on their heads, and grins as he looks back at Martin.

“Ah, there he is!” The man has the audacity to laugh. “You’re a very good liar, you know. I suppose it’s a gift of the mother. I truly believed you, I really did, but I figured there was no harm in checking.” 

“No harm?” He wants to fucking strangle this old bag of flesh that calls itself a person. Dimly, as he gestures with his arms, he notices that he has more than two. “They’re just kids!”

“All children dream of flying,” he says, unbothered, “But few get to say they truly experienced it! Really, now, they’re fine.” He turns his body to face Martin fully. “That’s quite the bold tone of voice, young man, to take to two senior avatars.” That same manic glint from earlier is back in his eyes, but Martin can’t really bring himself to be frightened by it this time. Mike Crew is standing again, but he looks more tense than his teacher, eyeing Martin warily. “Simon,” he says, speaking for the first time since they arrived, “I really think we should be going.” _Good,_ Martin thinks distantly, _he’s scared._

“No, **no.** ” He wills most of the strings, with some effort, to leave the air, keeping one down low to the floor in between him and Simon. “ **You’re right,** of course. **You can’t just let that insult go unpunished** , can you? **You have an image to maintain.** ” He smiles, and lets it look meek despite the anger coursing through him. A spider is crawling on his shoulder. “ **Step closer, so that you can throw me off the edge of the Falling Titan.** ”

Because he doesn’t have a choice- never really had one, since the beginning of this conversation- Simon takes a step closer, into the single string Martin had left by the floor.

Things happen pretty quickly after that.

First, Simon Fairchild trips and falls. When he gets back up (Martin makes him get back up), there are spider strings, tied around his wrists. Then he walks to the balcony (Martin makes him walk to the balcony). Except, it’s not really a balcony, at this point- because it no longer opens up into the city streets below. The black sky, glimmering with stars and paintings, is endless. Simon Fairchild throws himself (Martin makes him throw himself) off into the Vast.

He wonders, briefly, if someone so used to flying remembers how to be afraid of falling.

Mike Crew stares at him. So does everybody else. He looks like he’s about to try to say something, but Martin cuts him off before he does. “If you **leave now,** you can stop him from falling into the mouth of his own god.” His mouth snaps shut, and he gives one final glance at him before striding to the balcony and, with purpose, jumps off of it. Martin watches his more controlled glide, until he’s too far to see that the endless sky turns into the ground once again.

The eyes of the people around him bore into him. The strange anger from earlier is gone, replaced by the realization of what he just did. Martin staggers from the weight of it, bringing a hand- there’s only two, now- up to his mouth.

“Oh- oh god.” The people in the restaurant look- well, terrified, frankly. He stumbles backwards, towards the door. “I- I’m- I’m sorry.”

He runs out of there without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2 - Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets an assignment from Elias.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah!! People on here are so nice!! I did not expect that!! I'm gonna live off this high for weeks!! In all seriousness though, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 2 - Jon

Jon looks out his window, considering the new constellation in the sky.

An avatar of the Web, clearly. But why? The Mother has always been picky about her chosen ones- Annabelle Cane, Emma Harvey. Those are the only two known in the last century, and Emma Harvey is dead now, anyways. Why a new avatar, why now?

“Jon.”

Of course, it could be that there is no reason. Jon doesn’t think the Entities are capable of complex thought. Or, no, that’s not right- more that their thoughts are _too_ complex, on a level that no human- or avatar- could understand. And that they, for the same-but-opposite reason, are therefore unable to understand human thought.

“ _Jon_.”

But that makes no sense either- wouldn’t the Web have to understand, on some level? It’s the fear of manipulation, of control. By nature, you have to understand something to manipulate it- unless, maybe, it has just experimented for millennia, a monkey pressing buttons in a box to get food, never understanding why-

“ _Archives._ ”

The Archives- no, Jon, he’s still Jon- spins around in his chair in alarm. He catches a brief glimpse of an exasperated Elias before his chair continues revolving, landing him facing the same way as before- ie, away from his boss.

He awkwardly scoots back, clears his throat, and clasps his hands in front of him, for lack of a better place to put them.

“Elias,” he says. “I... didn’t notice you there.” With his surprise quickly fading, Jon decides to take advantage of the duality of man and use the only other emotion he knows how to show: annoyance. Scowling, he adds, “I asked you to please not call me- to please just call me Jon.”

Elias Bouchard- head of the Magnus Alliance, avatar of the Beholding, the Watcher- smiles genially at him. “I was calling your name, at first. But when that didn’t seem to be conducive- well, I decided to call _your_ _name_ instead.” His bland expression grows into something a little more genuine, which is not an improvement. “Did it not work? And you shouldn’t be so ashamed of it, you know. After all, it’s a gift from our god. Gifts should be used, appreciated-”

“And never taken lightly, I know, I know!” He’s heard this lecture a thousand times, and any response he might have, from pointing out that Elias uses his own name to simply saying he doesn’t want to, never seems to dissuade the other. He doesn’t have the energy to fight this battle right now, so he takes a deep breath in, and lets it out slowly. “I apologize. Was there something you needed?”

“Yes, actually. Can I come in?” Jon gestures for him to do so. Elias walks over to the window he was looking out of earlier, staring at the night sky. Technically, he shouldn’t be in his office this late. Also technically, Elias shouldn’t know that he’s in his office this late. But Elias is of the Eye, so it makes sense that he’d know- or rather, Know. As for why he’s still here so late, well...

As much as he dislikes his... other name, it contains an unavoidable truth. He is the Archives. This does not mean he is the building- the building is only named after what it contains, which is him and the statements. Anywhere those pieces of taken memories reside, so does a part of him, now. Resting outside of it gives him an uncomfortably numb feeling all over, like when your leg falls asleep. He’d sleep directly in the middle of the statement storage room, if it wasn’t for the fact that embarrassing photos can (and will) be taken by Tim and Sasha. He wonders if they still have that Instagram for him. He hopes not. The Eye helpfully informs him that yes, they do, and yes, they still update it whenever he accidentally passes out in the middle of a pile of statements.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by a pause in whatever Elias was talking about. Ah, he was supposed to be paying attention, wasn’t he? The Beholding, once again being helpful, tells him that Elias has noticed he wasn’t listening, but it does not give him any clues as to what the conversation might have been about. Elias, having come to the same conclusion, sighs.

“Really, Jon.” Jon fidgets- he should not feel like a secondary schooler being admonished by a teacher, he is a fully grown avatar- but makes eye contact. “I apologize,” he says, for the second time. “Can you repeat what you just said?”

Elias pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing his temples like he’s got a headache- oh, according to the Eye, he does. “I may as well just show you, if you’re going to daydream like that.” Jon tries to say something- that he can pay attention this time- but Elias’s eyes turn a brighter shade of blue, the light of them obscuring everything in his vision, until-

There’s a man sitting in the middle of a messy bed, in a room full of contradictions.

They are not significant contradictions- no, they are only noticed by him because of how many there are. He has memorabilia for all the gods scattered around his room- but not placed with the sort of care you should take if you worship multiple gods. In fact, it almost looks the opposite:

A badge for the Lonely- a classic sign that someone is taking a religious isolation, and should therefore not be spoken to- is placed firmly underneath a Corruption’s stone, a glass sphere riddled with holes and a single worm set in the middle. A tiny spade, representing the Buried, is laid across a small set of binoculars with the design of the Vast set on them. A pendant for the Eye is piled haphazardly on a Dark blindfold. There is representation of some kind for all of the Entities, except, Jon notes, the Web. 

It makes a very strange picture to look at.

The man, who has wrapped himself in blankets and is staring morosely at the cup of tea in his hands, stiffens at the feeling of being watched. He hesitates for a second, glances around himself, and sheds his cocoon of comfort before walking over to the Eye pendant, moving the blindfold so that it covers it completely.

Jon can’t help but feel a little miffed by this action. But he keeps watching, as the man then crouches down next to his desk. There’s a medium patch of gauze on the side of it, the type that obscures whatever is behind it but still lets light through. As he looks on, the man carefully pulls it aside, revealing a glass terrarium, which he opens to show a-

If Jon was able to pull away from gazing at the scene, he would have leaped back with an embarrassing scream. As it is, Elias’s powers do not allow him to do that, so he has to keep staring as the man pulls out a tarantula the size of his palm, and begins to coo at it.

“Hi, Muffet... yes, you’re a good girl! Yes, you are!” He pauses in his praise to sigh. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do... we don’t exactly have enough money to move out, do we? And mum’s gonna be... well, I don’t know, but it’s not going to be good, is it.” He laughs softly as the tarantula begins to crawl slowly up his arm, waggling its two front legs with every step it takes. “You didn’t understand any of that, huh? That’s ok.” He glances over at the tank. “Guess I should probably clean that out- it’s been a while. Alright, off you get.” He gently prods the giant spider into a different container, leaving a small bottle cap of water with it, and Elias begins to pull them both out of the sight as the man begins to set to work on his beloved pet’s home, keeping up a steady stream of chatter to what is apparently named “Little Ms. Muffet.” As it fades out, the man seems to have, for a second, six more eyes and arms than he should.

Jon tries to not look too ruffled as he finds himself back in his office. Elias, calm and collected as ever, looks down at him. “So,” he says, “What did you think?”

“Was that-”

“Martin Blackwood, the newest avatar of the Web? Yes. Quite the odd one, isn’t he? A collection of relics for all the gods, hiding the only one he actually worships.”

“That... certainly is odd.”

“Indeed. Tomorrow, I want you and your team to go talk to him.” Jon’s eyes widen, and he starts to protest- he’d rather avoid anything of the Web, if he can help it- but Elias cuts him off. “From what we’ve seen so far, he’s not a threat unless he feels the need to be. And it has to be tomorrow. I fear that he is thinking of leaving town after all that excitement tonight- don’t look for it right now, you can look in the morning- and I want you to at least get a read on what his plans are, maybe offer a job in the Alliance if he seems up to par. Take Ms. Tonner, if that’ll make you feel safer.”

Jon rubs at his eyes. He can’t exactly say no- this is, after all, his job. He just wishes that Elias chose anyone else for it. “Fine,” he says tiredly. “Will that be all?”

“That’s all. Do try to get some sleep, will you? I’d really like to avoid another incident like what happened in March.” Jon winces. March was tough, but in his defense, he was trying to figure how to not give people horrific, never-ending nightmares. Answer: he couldn’t, but he did realize that he can make some sort of weird trauma-rotating schedule, so that at least only one person a night gets a nightmare from him. Not perfect, but better.

“I will,” he promises as Elias turns away. Elias raises a single hand in acknowledgement, already leaving the room, then pauses. “Your assistants are asleep on the break room couch, if you didn’t know. Please wake them up and tell them to go home; it’s unprofessional of them to be here this late.”

Jon did, in fact, Know, but he doesn’t tell Elias this. “Of course,” he says. Elias finally exits his office, and he sighs, letting his face hit the cool wood of his desk. After a while, he gets up, retrieves his toothbrush from where he keeps it in the back room of his office, and goes to the bathroom to quickly brush his teeth. He passes Tim and Sasha, as Elias said, passed out on the break room couch. He Knows that after a long day, they sometimes take a nap there. Tim must have forgotten to set his alarm this time.

As their professional boss, he should wake them up. As the Archives, he really doesn’t want to. Elias had pulled him aside once, at the very beginning, and explained that he might start to feel possessive of his Archives and who he let in, and that he should try his best to balance those feelings. After all, this was what had happened with Gertrude, the Archivist, until she went... well. But Jon has found that he has the opposite impulses- he wants people to come in here, he wants them to Know, to See, to Learn, and, even if he is unable to, to Understand. Maybe Elias, who takes on the aspect of the Beholding that is the Watcher, someone who knows more than you, someone who withholds that information from you, doesn’t get Jon’s feelings for that reason. Jon takes on the aspect of the Beholding that is the Archives, a torrent of information, that wants to both gain more and share more- a living library, constantly growing. Tim and Sasha, staying here, feels right.

And besides, after a year or two of him trying to be detached and prickly, and them slowly chipping that away, he now considers them friends. So it’s with that thought in mind that he thinks it’s only right he do one more thing:

He picks Tim’s phone up off the table, Knows the password and unlocks it, and opens up his Instagram account. It takes a few attempts- technology doesn’t work great for him anymore- but finally he gets a picture. Types, posts it, then leaves quietly to get ready for bed and some sleep.

Tim wakes up, disorientated until he realizes he’s still in the Archives. He’s surprised to find his and Sasha’s phones, plugged in. His is already unlocked, and he grins at the screen he opens it up to:

A blurry picture, of him and Sasha. It’s captioned “Archival Assistants? Asleep in My Archives? More Likely Than You Think.”

Never let it be said that Jon doesn’t have a sense of humor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin calms down with a friend, and receives more unwanted visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your comments, my ego has been fanned and I will soon be incinerated by the resulting wildfire it has created. I hope you enjoy this chapter, sorry it took a bit!

Chapter 3

With the adrenaline of both running home and... whatever all that was, Martin has no doubt that he won’t be falling asleep anytime soon.

So instead, he makes himself tea, ignores the prickling feeling of being watched, cleans out Ms. Muffet’s tank, organizes his props (he shoves the Beholding pendent deep into a drawer, wrapping it in the Dark’s blindfold), makes himself more tea, washes out the entire fridge, throws away any food that's gone bad, gets one more cup of tea, and feels like he’s pretty successfully made himself stop worrying until he mentally congratulates himself on no longer worrying, which immediately undoes all his hard work, and then it’s another hour or two of panicking before he collapses on the couch, not even making it to the bed.

Martin dreams. He dreams of a little spider with an impossibly large web, the Mother’s delight at such a concept. It’s a novelty to her, but she is so very pleased by the results already. He feels her joy, and he thinks that it all feels so right, so natural. 

The rightness of it does not stop the creeping sense of dread that pervades his entire body.

He wakes up slowly, with that feeling still lingering. Works himself off the couch, cracks his back and winces at the crunch of bones that come with getting older. Goes to the kitchen to get more tea, because that’s the only thing keeping him sane. He’s too tired to notice that, when he puts the electric kettle on, it’s already warm.

So he thinks he’s more than a little justified for the scream he lets out when he hears a voice behind him say, “Wow, you look like shit.”

“AH! Gods, Melanie, what the hell?”

Melanie King, his neighbor and (only) friend, stands in the conjunction between his living room and kitchen, looking distinctly unimpressed. She’s holding his mug in one hand and her phone in the other. “Hey. Are you making more tea? Tried to make some of that herbal one for myself, but I took the teabag out too early and it tastes like really flat seltzer.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just walks over to the sink and dumps it out. “I’ll take some of whatever you’re having.”

Martin, for his part, tries to calm himself from the miniature heart attack she gave him. “It’ll be a bit,” he says, once his breathing is under control again. “I’m still boiling the water. What are you doing here?”

“Came to check up on you.” She plunks her mug down on the counter. “Last night was rough, huh?”

“What are you- oh.” He’d almost forgotten, upon waking up. Like maybe it was just a part of those strange dreams. “Oh, fuck.” 

“Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. Look, you’ve nearly got 50,000 views on youtube!”

She turns her phone towards him, and he can see the screen from where he’s sitting on the floor: NEW WEB AVATAR THROWS VAST AVATAR OFF BUILDING, NOT CLICKBAIT!!!

He sees a blurry picture of his back, eight arms extended in a mockingly placating gesture.

“That’s...” His mouth feels dry, his head is pounding. “I- I didn’t...”

Melanie’s face slips into one of concern immediately, and she crouches next to where he’s started sliding down towards the ground. “Oh, shit, Martin. I’m sorry, I just kind of- uh, thought it was funny- fuck, I’m sorry, that wasn’t- that was in poor taste-” He can’t really hear her continuing apology that is half words, half swears, but the hand that she puts on his back is reassuring, and after a few seconds the haze of _oh gods oh no no panic panic panic_ lifts, allowing him to choke out “I-it’s- It’s fine, you’re fine.”

They sit there in silence, save for the sound of water bubbling and the kettle switching itself off. Melanie puts her phone away. Martin tries to think of ways to salvage this conversation. He’s saved by Melanie, with the air of someone choosing their words like they’re taking a multiple choice quiz in which they only know options that can definitely be eliminated, saying carefully, “I, um, actually did come to check up on you. How- er, how are you? If you’re up to it, what happened?”

He laughs, and it’s a little frantic. “Shouldn’t you be following safety protocols? They specifically tell friends and family to stay away, you know.”

There is always a safety protocol, whenever a new avatar appears. Martin, the last time it was relevant (Jonathan Sims, the Archives, about a year ago), thought it was kind of funny- the initial instructions are almost word-for-word what you should do if you encounter a wild bear. The rest of them just tell you to do anything to avoid offending them, and warning loved ones of the avatar to stay away, for now.

They don’t seem so funny anymore.

She snorts. “Martin, no offense, but I’m pretty sure you’ve been an avatar for at least the last week. You’ve just been in denial.” She sighs. “Alright, listen. You’re my friend, and it’s my fault this happened to you. Least I can do is stop by and make sure you’re not stewing in your own head.”

Martin’s touched. Melanie isn’t usually the type to state any affections out loud- more of the “pretends to hate you, but will show up with soup when you’ve got a fever” type.

“Wasn’t your fault,” he says. “I mean, even if you _had_ ignored Annabelle’s invitation, there would have been some type of repercussion. She probably would’ve just pulled strings, until you showed up regardless.”

“Wow! Thanks, that’s a very comforting thought! That aside, I was right: You are definitely stewing in your head. C’mon, lets go get some tea.” She offers a hand to help him up, and Martin takes it.

When Melanie says, “lets go get some tea,” she really means, “you’re gonna make us tea while I drive you mad with how I drink mine.” Like an absolute heathen, she insists that she have honey, sugar, _and_ artificial sweetener in the same mug, and doesn’t wait until it stops brewing to dump in not milk, but enough coffee creamer to lower the temperature to that of luke-warm water. Martin watches in dismay as she then proceeds to slam the whole thing down.

“Damn, I always forget how good a cup you make.” Martin, used to these horrors by now, sips at his perfectly sensible tea. “Anyways, do you want to talk about what happened?”

He frowns. “I don’t know. It was kind of blurry. I- I remember telling him that I wasn’t who he was looking for, and I think I’d convinced him- but then- there was these kids-” innocent children crying, and a white-hot anger that whispered that Simon Fairchild has forgotten the fear of his own god, that whispered that Martin should show him his place. 

“Then things got a little fucked,” Melanie fills in wisely. He barks out a laugh. “Yeah, exactly.” He hesitates before he adds, “It felt... so wrong, but also... right. Like it was natural. Lying, with some extra bits involved.” Melanie glances at him out of the side of her eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

They’re washing out their mugs when a knock resounds through his apartment. They look at each other, eyes wide, then break into whispered argument: “I’ll get it,” Melanie murmurs harshly. “No! What if it’s- I don’t know, Cane or Fairchild, or something?” “At least one of those two won’t recognize me, but they would recognize-”

The knock comes again, louder and with less patience.

“I’ll get it,” Martin decides. “Just a second,” He calls out as loudly as he can while still sounding meek, then dashes to his room.

His props have uses, after all.

______________________________________________________________________________

Jon sighs as they walk up to the flat. Tim and Sasha are chatting amicably, while he and Daisy are companionably silent. At least, he’s companionably silent; he does not pretend to claim that Daisy particularly likes him. She hasn’t killed him yet, at the very least. He slows to a stop as they come before the door.

“We’re here,” he announces.

The flat doesn’t look like much. From the outside, it had appeared to be an average, bit-on-the-shady-side apartment building, and the inside is the same. As they stand in the hallway, an old lady slowly makes her way past, giving a curious look but otherwise ignoring them.

“Well,” Daisy says, “Do you want to knock, Sims?” 

Tim grins at him reassuringly. “Go for it, boss.” Sasha gives him a thumbs up. 

Jon rolls his eyes at them, and tries not to think about the last time he was about to knock on a Spider’s door.

He raises his hand, and only pauses for a second before he raps it against the wood.

They all wait for a response, but none comes. “Maybe he’s not here right now?” Sasha suggests. Daisy lets out a quick exhale that could be taken for a laugh. “More likely that he’s ignoring us.” She steps up and pounds on the entrance. Jon winces at the noise, but he’s relieved to hear a voice from within say softly, “Just a second.”

Another minute passes. Just as he’s considering walking inside, the door creaks open. It reveals a man that Jon thinks he recognizes from what Elias showed him, but...

He’s got a pale face, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is lighter than Jon remembers, his eyes a muted shade of brown. The jacket he wears presents a Lonely badge, peaking shyly out from under his collar. He’s dressed in greys, whites, drab colors: the colors of an Isolation.

_Oh_ , Jon thinks, _this was a mistake._

The man takes them all in, looking from member to member. His pale eyes are comically wide. “Did... Did something happen?” Tim opens his mouth, but the man continues before he has a chance. “He said I could get him the money after my sacrifice. Oh, One Alone, I’m going to have to start all over again...”

“I- we’re sorry- must be the wrong door-” He stammers. Sasha’s covering her mouth with a hand, Tim simply gapes, even Daisy looks uncomfortable. “We’re- we’re so sorry-” The man doesn’t even bother to listen. He sighs, and shuts the door in their faces.

They all stare at it in muted dismay.

“Well!” Tim interrupts the silence, trying to breathe life back into the now-stale air. “Guess we got the wrong address, huh.” Sasha snorts. “Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Jon isn’t listening to them. He’s too busy staring at the strand of spider web that drifts off his knuckles, from the hand that connected with the door.

_Something’s wrong_ , the Eye whispers. _Liar, liar, liar._ He straightens, dusts the silk off his hands. “Tim,” he says calmly, “Can I borrow those gloves of yours?” Tim doesn’t bother asking how he knows he has gloves in his bag, just shrugs and hands them over. Jon pulls one on, and steps forward to knock once more.

“Woah, hey, Jon-”

“What are you doing-”

“Cut it out, Sims!”

He ignores them all, and raps his knuckles against the door. “Martin Blackwood,” He yells, “Open the door!”

“Jon, he’s not-”

The door swings open.

“I thought I made it very clear not to bother me,” he says, eyes squinted in anger, “and my name isn’t even Blackwood. It’s Blackwaters, they’re right next to each other in the address book, you must’ve-”

“ _What’s your name?_ ” Jon interrupts. “Martin Blackwood, the Little Spider.” he answers immediately. His eyes widen once more. “Wait. Fuck.” The Beholding contentedly settles in Jon’s mind, satisfied with the exchange of a question asked and an answer taken. _Truth_ , it says. He smiles at the shaken expression on Martin’s face, at the shock on Tim and Sasha and Daisy.

“Well, then, Martin,” he says. “Do you mind inviting us in?”

Martin Blackwood hesitates, looks at the triumph in Jon’s eyes, the snarl on Daisy’s face.

He resignedly waves them inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What To Do If A Bear or Avatar Approaches You
> 
> 1.) If you encounter a bear/avatar, do not run.  
> 2.) Avoid direct eye contact.  
> 3.) Walk away slowly, if the bear/avatar is not approaching.  
> 4.) If the bear/avatar charges, stand your ground (you cannot outrun it).  
> 5.) Don't scream or yell.  
> 6.) If you have pepper spray, prepare to use it.
> 
> -Instructions courtesy of PBS, directly after both the Awakening of Jonathan Sims, the Archives, and a breakout at the zoo.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon flexes his powers, Tim and Sasha act competent, Daisy and Melanie glower at everyone, and Martin gives a statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got a little long, woops, but I couldn't really find a good place to cut it off. Thank you guys so much for all of your comments and for reading, and I hope you enjoy! Also, uhhh, I guess warnings for spiders?? Like. Lots of em. Just be careful if you don't like them.

Chapter 4

“Can I get any of you tea?” Martin doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m going to make tea.”

He needs the tea. There’s a bunch of strangers in his apartment, at least one of whom is an avatar, and they haven’t told him why they’re here yet. This isn’t even mentioning the fact that he just called himself the “Little Spider,” which is a can of worms he doesn’t particularly feel like poking at right now.

Instead, he just leads the group of four into his living room, and mentally spins through worst-case scenarios and unanswered questions.

Who sent them? Are they here to take him captive? Kill him? They would have done either one of those already, right? The question-asker must be of the Eye, or maybe the Web, from how he’d been forced to answer. Did Fairchild or Cane send them? Or someone else? He has no idea, and he doesn’t know what to do.

Melanie scowls as she watches them try to fit into the already-tiny space. “Thought you said you got this,” she mutters to him as he walks past her to the kitchen to make tea.

“Yeah, well, we all make mistakes,” he whispers back. He takes out his contacts as he gets into the kitchen, shakes his head over the sink to get the flour out of his hair. He’s painfully aware, even as he turns away to get the water boiling again, of where everyone is located in the room. The one with intense green eyes and many scars- the question asker- is watching him; he’s sat himself down on the tip of a chair. Next to him stands the intimidating woman, her arms folded, alert, like a predator barely restraining itself. Melanie leans against the kitchen entrance, still in the living room, but the closest to Martin. The handsome man, with some similar scarring to the question asker, has already made himself at home on his couch, and the other woman with glasses and dark curly hair sits next to him, squinting at Melanie.

“Are you- are you Melanie King? The youtuber?”

When he glances back at her, the expression on Melanie’s face nearly makes Martin laugh. She seems to be warring between being pleased at the recognition, and keeping her face set in annoyance in an act of loyalty to her friend. She finally settles on a neutral, “Yeah.”

The handsome man grins. “I love your videos! We watch ‘em whenever we need some background info on an avatar. Don’t tell Jon.”

The question asker- Jon?- finally takes his eyes off of Martin, and he feels like somebody’s lifted a weight off his shoulders. “Tim, what you watch in your free time is completely your jurisdiction, but if I find another report that cites a video with a completely uppercase title- Anyways. Now is not the time. However, Ms. King, I would like to know:  _ What are you doing here? _ ”

“Came to check up on Martin. I saw the news this morning, and I was there earlier in the week, so I wanted to make sure he hadn’t been murdered- hey. What the fuck?” Martin can relate: being asked a question had been like having it pulled out of you, regardless of whether you would have given it willingly or not. Even when it wasn’t directed at him, Martin had still felt the power of it, like a static crackling through the air.

He grits his teeth. A cold stabs through him; it’s similar to what he felt in the restaurant, but this time washed with fear instead of anger. He carefully sets it aside. He’d rather not have a repeat of that- actually, he’d rather not use these strange powers at all. He doesn’t want to control people unless he needs to.

He’ll just do what he always does: Let them underestimate him, and turn it around if necessary.

______________________________________________________________________________

Jon knows he must be being manipulated.

He does not trust anyone affiliated with the Web. If he focuses, he can See the strings that glisten in the air, all leading back to Martin. He and his companions have yet to be caught in it, but he’s sure it’s just a matter of time. 

He’s about to say something- maybe force Martin to tell him his plan- but he’s interrupted by a crash from the kitchen.

Daisy strides over at once, and he follows behind her. They find Martin grimacing over a broken mug on the floor, precariously balancing the remaining five. “Sorry,” he says, face sheepish, then calls out, “Hey, Melanie, can you-?”

Melanie inches past Jon and Daisy to help, regarding them like rabid dogs (which he can’t say is unjustified; he probably shouldn’t have asked her a question), and Martin squeezes into the other room. They both return to their original positions: Daisy standing, Jon sitting uncomfortably. Jon reluctantly accepts a cup from Martin; he’s learned his lesson on manners from Mike Crew.

“Sorry,” Martin says again. “I’m a bit clumsy, sometimes. Makes the waitering business tough.”  _ Truth _ , whispers the Eye, but even as Jon watches, he Sees the webs shift with the statement. They thicken, but get less perceptible. He narrows his eyes at him.

“Stop that,” he says sharply. Martin frowns. “I’m sorry? Stop what?” They tighten further.

There’s no way he doesn’t know, and Jon doesn’t have the patience to play along. “The strings. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use them while we’re here.”

“I really have no idea what you’re- Oh!” He gapes at the air, and Jon is taken aback. If he’s acting, the Beholding isn’t telling him. “You-  _ you really didn’t see them until now? _ ”

“No. They’re kind of pretty, aren’t they?” He’d argue terrifying, but he doesn’t want to get in a fight about it right now. Instead, he says, “Regardless, please try to control them for the time being.” Martin gets a look of focus, and they retreat to the corners of the room. Still present, but not nearly as threatening.

Tim clears his throat. “Now that you guys are done talking about things the rest of us can’t see, we can introduce ourselves! I’m Tim Stoker, this is Sasha James, Daisy Tonner, and Jonathan Sims. We’re from the Magnus Alliance.” He pulls out his lanyard with the official logo: Two seven-fingered hands, holding a human heart. Each finger represents an Entity, while the heart represents the Alliance itself.

“Jonathan Sim? As in, the Archives?” Jon tries to keep his face neutral, but has a sinking feeling that he did not succeed. 

“Yes. I prefer Jon, however.” Martin gives him a considering look, and nods.

Sasha continues where Tim left off. “Don’t worry- you’re not in any trouble. Your attack on Fairchild was justified, as it’s illegal to introduce any children under the age of 18 to an Entity. We’re only here for a couple of reasons: One, to ask a couple of questions for the purpose of research, two, to make sure you’re aware of all the laws, and three, to offer you a job with us.”

Tim and Sasha continue to explain the laws- basic stuff, it mainly boils down to  _ no children, and don’t kill anyone _ . Thank the gods for them- he would not be patient enough to sit through all of Martin’s questions and winces at particularly unsettling rules. He drops in as Tim’s explaining the quota.

“So, you get five unwilling sacrifices a year. Willing sacrifices, you can take as needed.” He laughs. “If I had to guess from earlier, I’d say you already know how willing sacrifices work, at least from the Offerer’s perspective.”

Martin rubs the back of his neck. “Er- yes. Sorry about that. I, uh, thought that Simon or Annabelle might have sent someone. Usually works pretty well if you don’t want someone bothering you, but-” he looks at Jon- “Not this time, I guess.”

He cannot let this one slide. “Excuse me, Annabelle?  _ As in Annabelle Cane? _ ”

“Yeah. I kinda thought it’d be obvious we’ve met? Just from, well.” He gestures vaguely at the window, towards the sky. It’s too light out to show up right now, but he does remember the constellation: a kneeling man, extended spider legs from his back, puppetting the Puppeteer herself. “I don’t think she’s too happy with me, either.”

Jon can sense the segway, the Beholding stirs in his mind. “About that,” he says. “As the Archives, it is my job to record experiences of the supernatural and holy, such as the Awakenings of avatars. If you wish to be able to accept a position in the Alliance, then you must submit to making a statement, as well as some additional research questions. I assume that you wish to do as such?” The question does not have any power behind it, as it was not meant to be answered. But Martin hesitates anyways, and Jon can once again taste a secret being considered. Eventually, he nods.

“Wonderful.” The Archives lets the click and whir of a tape recorder wash over him, like hearing his heartbeat again. “Statement of the Little Spider, Martin Blackwood. Recorded directly to the Archives. We will start with research questions, then move to your statement. Is this acceptable?” An affirmative noise. 

And so he begins.

______________________________________________________________________________

Martin hadn’t been sure, until today, of why people actually thought the Eye was scary. Theoretically, he did: Someone knowing all of your secrets would be terrifying. He knew that better than anyone. And yes, he had been very shocked and uncomfortable when answers slid from his mouth unwillingly, with coherence for answers he hadn’t even consciously known himself. But he’d never been able to get over the stereotype of Beholders being the stuffy, librarian types. Seeing Jon, and realizing who he was, had not dispelled this belief.

The man who sits in front of him now, with hundreds of open, green, glowing eyes, all focused on  _ him, just him _ , gives Martin a completely new perspective of the fear of being Watched.

“ _ You are an avatar of the Web, the Little Spider. Correct? _ ”

“Yes.” He doesn’t think he couldn’t say anything if he tried, so he doesn’t.

“ _ How long have you served it as such? Did you follow it before, and if so, for how long? _ ”

“A week, since last Saturday. I have followed the Mother for most of my life, but I mostly tried to hide it.”

“ _ Why did you hide it? _ ”

“Mum always said that the Mother was the goddess of royalty, of those in power. I did not have any power of my own, but I still worshipped her. It was easier to pretend to be something else, when asked.”

“ _ Do you plan on breaking any laws of the Magnus Alliance? _ ”

“Not unless my life, or someone else’s, is in danger.”

“ _ What aspect of the Mother do you serve to represent? _ ”

“The Underestimated, the Unassuming. Desperate lies, using the power of others against themselves. A trap you cannot see until you are caught in the middle of it. You are in control, and then you never were.” The sentences flow from his mouth, surprising him. Instinctively, he understands that these are not his own words, but those of his god.

“ _ You said that you have been an avatar for  _ **_a week, since last Saturday._ ** ” As he says it, the tape recorder plays Martin’s own words back, giving the Archives an echo. He leans forward, and somehow, when Martin didn’t think it was possible, more eyes open.

“ _ Tell me how that happened. _ ”

He’s aware that his mouth is opening. He’s aware that words are coming out of it. But for all intents and purposes, he’s back in the memory. Everything is exactly the same.

The only difference is the expressionless eyes. Uncaring. Ceaselessly Watching.

He’s hanging out with Melanie in her apartment. It’s a Wednesday night, and they’re silent; the sort of comfortable quiet that comes with being friends for so long. She’s editing a video on her laptop, he’s reading a book. Everything is good.

Then a phone rings, and the world will flip upside down because of it.

They both pat their pockets, they both are confused when it’s not their smartphones. They both hear it continue to ring. Martin’s the one who spots it: an old Nokia, sitting on the windowsill, beneath a spiderweb. He points it out to Melanie, and she answers.

“Hello?” False bravado in her tone. Martin sees past it, she’s putting on a brave face. “This is Melanie King.”

He does not hear the conversation, because it was never intended for him. But when she hangs up, face drawn in fear, she tells him the long and short of it: Annabelle Cane, Lawless avatar of the Web, wants her to come to the Puppet’s House on Saturday.

“‘For a video,’ she said.” Melanie had looked so pale. For good reason: as far as Lawless avatars go, the Puppeteer was arguably the worst of them all. Few come back from the Puppet’s House, and those who do describe lifeless people, filled with spiders, swaying from webs like- well. Like puppets. Moving against their will, if they even have one anymore.

“Are you going?” It’s barely a question, and they both know it. There’s no choice  _ but _ to go. So he lets it go unanswered, and moves the conversation on his own. “I’m coming, too.” She argues with this, very angrily, because the call wasn’t for him, and that may as well be suicide. He ignores her, and tells her that someone’s going to have to hold the camera, and that it may as well be him. He wins, because thanks to his mother, he’s learned how to let someone burn through rage until they give up. And it’s settled: come Saturday, they will both go to the Puppet House. And in the meantime, Martin feels the start of something cold grow in his chest.

Because here’s the thing: he’s tricked people, before. It’s why he started worshipping the Mother. She is the goddess of power and control, yes, but also of manipulation. And he’s pretty good at that. He knows how to make someone look at you and see nothing, and he knows how to use that to get what he wants. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and his mother’s rising medical bills meant that he had become an expert at fooling the rich into giving away their money.

No matter how good he is, however, he knows that there’s almost no chance that he could beat Annabelle Cane. He still has to try. He can’t just leave his best friend to a fate worse than death.

Saturday rolls around. He picks a god he thinks the Puppeteer will find suitably pathetic (the Lonely, again) and dresses accordingly. Works some wax into something like a small bowl, puts some oil in the middle and seals it up again. Puts it and a lighter in two different pockets, and finally a knife in a third. Says goodbye to Ms. Muffet, and follows Melanie when she begins to be pulled by invisible strings.

It doesn’t take long to reach the Puppet House. Stringed hands open the doors for them, and they walk inside. It almost looks like a formal dinner party at first, until he realizes what they’re eating. The guests are being forced to eat bites of spiders, smiles on their faces. He does not throw up, but it’s a close call, and he instead thinks about how wonderful it would be to burn this place down.

Annabelle Cane is sitting at the head of the table, and she stands up when they are escorted inside.

“Melanie! It’s so nice to meet you. I’m quite the fan, honestly.” She sees Martin, and her grin grows larger. He clutches the lighter tighter. “And you’ve brought a guest, I see. How kind of you!”

“He’s just my cameraman. He’s not important.” It’s kind of her to attempt to take attention off of him, but she really didn’t even need to try: he’s already been labeled as part of the background.

“Of course,” Annabelle agrees easily. “Do you want to come sit? You had to walk all the way over here.” At this point, things start to get a little blurry. One second they are standing, the next seated at the table. The rest of the dinner guests are gone. Their plates of spiders remain behind them, crawling.

One idly makes its way over to him while Melanie and Annabelle talk, and he picks it up. Portia fimbriata- a jumping spider. Deciding that he might as well take it as a sign, he slips the lighter out of his pocket, and wonders at how quick cobwebs are to burn.

He’s just managed to click it on, a tiny flame flickering on the corner of the wood. It’ll catch. It has to catch. It has to-

Dead puppet hands pull him out of his chair.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Annabelle smiles down at him, lying on the ground. “No, seriously. Do you think I’m stupid? There’s always someone like you. They think they can drop into the background, that I won’t notice. That if they hide the god they worship, maybe they’ll get away with it.” She sighs. “Alas, worshippers of the Desolation are never exactly subtle, are you?”

He pulls out the piece of wax, fumbling with it, and she laughs. “Quite the relic,” she says. “Did they tell you that it was from Montague, or maybe Perry? I’ll tell you the truth. It’s just a melted candle that made someone think, ‘hey, I could sell this to a sucker!’”

“I-I-I’m- I’m sorry-” He tries to make a grab for the lighter on the floor, but spiders simply swarm it, carrying it away. At the table, he can see Melanie rigid, unable to move, watching from her seat. He gets in a kneeling position- rather, Annabelle allows him to. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please just let us go-” She just laughs harder.

And then, the world shivvers to a stop. 

Not in a slow, gentle way- in the way that a fly shakes violently when caught in a spider’s web. It jerks into motion, every few seconds, until those compulsions take longer and longer in between, and something holds it still on a thread.

_ It won’t work _ , it seems to whisper. The knife becomes a little bit heavier, and he knows it’s right. He might have successfully distracted her, but she would not be killed by something as small as a blade. It whispers to him again, and this time he thinks he can almost sense amusement, like this is all a game to it.  _ What can you do instead? _

Annabelle has her hands spread wide, low at her waist, and he can see the strings that extend from them. They glimmer invitingly.

He reaches for them.

The Mother releases time from its web. Annabelle Cane still laughs above him, Melanie is still stuck to her seat, and he is still crying. But when he stands up, the strings he now clutches in his hands keep her there, prideful, greedy, an overgorged spider. He walks over to Melanie, breaking the webs, and tugs her away (did he always have this many arms? Does it matter?). She seems dazed.

“What... What did you do?”

He had no idea.

The Archives’ voice cuts through the memory, and he jumps. “ _ Statement ends. _ ” His throat feels raw, his heart is beating uncontrollably, and everything seems hazy.

“I’m just gonna... lie down for a bit, I think,” he says shakily.

The Archive’s many eyes watch as he collapses onto the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the kind of abrupt ending, but I wasn't sure how else to end this chapter lmao. Also, have you guys ever seen a jumping spider up close??? Look at their eyes they look like classic cutesy cartoon things, I love them. They're also super smart, AND they dance, look up "Peacock Spider 'Staying Alive'" its great.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin starts the first day at his new job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back b*tches
> 
> Just kidding, all of you are great and, as far as I'm aware, not female dogs. Sorry that this is so late, kind of had some stuff going on the last couple of weeks, which combined with everything happening in the news was not uhhh great. Thank you for all of the support on the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Just edited bc I almost forgot to say: ACAB, and black lives matter.

Chapter 5

Martin sits in his room, trying to pick out a work-appropriate outfit and ignore the headache that’s been building for the last week.

It’s currently Sunday- eight days since his visit from the Alliance employees. After his statement, they’d left with little fanfare: Tim assuring him the shaky feeling is normal, Sasha handing over some paperwork to sign, Daisy glowering slightly less, and Jon just watching, a strangely content expression on his face.

Needless to say, Martin was rather relieved to see them go.

But that’s in the past. Right now, what matters is that the day after the visit, he was sent an email from the Magnus Alliance, outlining his new job. A job that he’s starting to regret accepting.

Yes, the paycheck is more than he’s ever made in his life. Yes, they’ll be helping him learn to control his powers, take sacrifices safely, maybe even help people. And yes, for once in his life, he did not have to lie on his CV. 

The last fact does not undermine his suspicions that he is overwhelmingly underqualified for this job.

All statements in the Archives are public domain. Because of this, TVs have been playing it over and over, transcriptions already in newspapers, and every media platform out there is dissecting his words. He’s heard his own voice more times in the last five days than he cared to. Everyone seems to be weighing in, feelings ranging from fear to admiration to simple curiosity. The whole world is looking at him, and he’s not sure if they’ll be too impressed by what they see.

Whatever. He once bluffed his way into a contract accountant position at a bank. He still has no idea how he got away with it, but if he can do that, he can do this.

_Maybe,_ he thinks hopefully, _it’ll even be less stressful._

______________________________________________________________________________

It is not less stressful.

His Monday starts off poorly; he wakes up with a throbbing head and spots in his eyes. He’s suspected that he’s been getting sick the last week, but this is even worse than it’s been so far. Unfortunately, he doesn’t think it would bode well to miss the first day of a new job, especially one so- well, weird. He weathers it down, makes some extra strong tea, and goes about his day.

The commute over is fine, if a bit dreary. He keeps his head down as he steps onto the Tube, and nobody pays him a second glance. His only problem is in trying to keep those strings out of the air- since Jon pointed it out to him, he’s been seeing them all over. It’s not bad when he’s by himself, but when Melanie came over, or if he’d felt brave enough to venture outside, they’d creep back into his vision. It’s a mental game of keep away as he attempts to stop them from tangling around random strangers. He... doesn’t really want to know what will happen if he fails.

It feels like it takes forever to arrive, but he gets there: the Magnus Archives, towering over the streets below. The building has a dual purpose; it functions as both a temple to the Eye, and as the Magnus Alliance’s London headquarters. He lingers by the door for a bit, reluctant to head in, but eventually he squares himself and submits to the heavy gaze of the Beholding.

He avoids the open worship area and enters straight into the lobby- it’s mostly full, filled with people and the receptionist. The latter- the nameplate states her name as Rosie- sits behind her desk, typing urgently on a computer. She does not look up when he approaches.

He coughs politely. “Er... Excuse me?”

She still doesn’t look up, just talks while typing. “If you’re here to give a written statement, all of our writing rooms are currently full, so you’ll have to wait a bit- a half hour, at most. And if you want to give a live one, you have to schedule ahead of time. There’s forms over there.”

Originally, he’d been terrified that he would be recognized the second he entered the building, that he would wilt under the stares of curious onlookers. It’s only now he’s starting to realize that having to explain who he is might be even worse.

“O-oh, no, I’m not here to make a statement. I’m actually, uh, starting m-my, uh, first day? Working here, I mean.” His voice gets higher as he stumbles through the sentence. Rosie finally stops clacking away at the keyboard, and looks him over.

“Name?”

“M-Martin Blackwood.” He says it quietly, hoping the people sitting behind him won’t hear. Unfortunately, the receptionist does not seem to get the memo.

“Mr. Blackwood. I... apologize if I was rude.” He internally winces as his name rings through the room, and hastens to assure her that no, she wasn’t rude at all. She keeps talking. “Mr. Bouchard will be here in just a minute to show you around. Do you mind waiting until then?”

“N-no, that’s fine.” He takes the only open seat, next to another man, and pointedly ignores the way he gapes at Martin. It’s only then he realizes the name she just dropped. Bouchard- as in Elias Bouchard, the Watcher? The head of the Alliance? He knew, logically, that he’d probably meet him at some point. He just didn’t realize it’d be so soon.

The last couple of days have not felt remotely real. Cane, Fairchild, Sims, and now Bouchard? And apparently, he’s joined their ranks- an avatar. Of the Web, no less. It’s not fair. He never wanted anything like this- he’s not brave, he’s not a hero, he just didn’t want his friend to die. He doesn’t even feel like he’s changed- yes, he’d felt pretty good for that whole week after, but he just woke up feeling sick, and everyone seems to be treating him like a nuclear bomb. He’s still Martin Blackwood, who has to pay bills, take care of his mother, and enjoys writing mediocre poetry.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when a suited man strides into the room. Physically, he’s not particularly threatening- Martin probably has a good foot over him, not to mention much more body weight. But that prickling feeling on the back of his neck intensifies uncomfortably, and spreads across his entire being. It’s like being on a podium before a crowd of thousands, only much worse. Everyone in the room turns to look at the two of them; their gazes drawn both by curiosity and the supernatural.

“Mr. Blackwood. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” He smiles in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, holding a hand out. Martin shakes it as he continues. “I am Elias Bouchard, the Watcher- you can simply call me Elias.”

“It’s an honor to meet-”

“I have a meeting in 20 minutes, so we’re going to have to make this quick, I’m afraid. Follow me.” He turns, and heads down the hallway he came from. Martin nearly trips to keep up.

In a way, he’s almost relieved by the way Elias is acting towards him. It’s a return to something close to normalcy: a boss who thinks Martin’s not worth his time of day. He can sense the disdain rolling off of him, and a part of him says _ok, I can work with this._

The webs get thicker, and he tries to clear his thoughts. He’s not supposed to be lying about anything here, or manipulating anyone. He can’t afford thinking like that. His head pounds from the effort.

Elias glances at the strings- he can see them too, apparently. “Hm. Have you managed to keep those under control?”

“Y-yes, I’ve been trying to. Sorry-”

“It’s no matter. If your last meal was in Fairchild, then I’d expect them to be getting harder to restrain.” Martin desperately, _desperately_ hopes that “meal” doesn’t mean what he thinks it does, but Elias keeps talking before he can ask.

“Normally, we would assign you a mentor to guide you until you have more power and understanding of your abilities.” He grimaces. “Unfortunately, because there are no other Web avatars currently working in the Alliance, I’m assigning my own student for now. I believe you’ve already met him?”

Martin’s brain temporarily short-circuits. “...Jon? Jonathan Sims?”

“The Archives, yes.” There’s something close to pride in his voice. “He was a quick learner, and I trust that he will be an effective teacher.” Martin doubts this, because he’s pretty sure from their first meeting that the man hates him. But he doesn’t argue as they come to a stop in front of a door with an Eye insignia on it. He can hear the sounds of muffled voices from within.

“Here we are,” Elias says, and opens it.

Martin doesn’t know what he was expecting to be behind the door. Maybe some sort of a many-eyed monster, or a giant library, or a cathedral type structure. He certainly didn’t expect this.

It just looks like an office space, with the exception that almost all the walls are made out of filing cabinets. The only parts that aren’t, it seems, are the doorways. Four desks crowd the edges, and a giant whiteboard stands proudly in the center. It’s covered in marker- gods, how many different colors do they have? There’s at least 20- and magnets that hang up different documents. He remembers most of the people there: Sasha is searching a cabinet for something, Tim looks like he might’ve been helping her but got distracted laughing at Jon, who is gesturing wildly at the whiteboard, circling something in red. A person he doesn’t recognize is sitting on the edge of a desk, grinning but also taking notes.

Jon jumps as the door opens, flinging his marker down. “Elias!” He coughs, seems to compose himself. “And Mr. Blackwood.” Ah, there’s the scowl. “I thought he wasn’t coming until Monday.”

A moment of silence as everyone (including Martin, because _really_ , aren’t avatars of the Eye supposed to be at least partially omniscient?) stares judgmentally at Jon. “Jon,” says Sasha, “It’s Monday.”

“What? No, it’s Sunday, Sasha-” A couple of eyes open on his face and forearms. “Oh. I see. It is Monday.”

“Hey, boss? Quick question- why did you not ask why we’re all here on a Sunday?”

“Tim, shut-”

“I’m afraid I must get going,” Elias interrupts. “I’ve got a meeting with Simon. We’re discussing disciplinary actions for his... transgressions, the other day. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blackwood. You’ll fit in nicely.” He smiles blandly. “Jon, remember what we discussed.”

Jon narrows his eyes at Elias’s retreating back, but says nothing in return. Martin is left standing awkwardly in the doorway, unsure if he should enter or not.

Thankfully, he’s saved by the person he hasn’t met yet waving him inside. “Don’t be rude, Jon. I’m Georgie, Georgie Barker- you’re Martin, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Nice to- wait. Georgie Barker? Like, ‘What the Ghost’ Georgie Barker?”

She grins- a real one, not one that looks like it was practiced for maximum efficiency. “Yup, that’s me. You’ve listened to it?”

Martin has, once or twice, but not as much as Melanie. She was devoted to it. “Oh, yeah, occasionally. I have a friend who really likes it.”

“Good to hear! Hey, how would you feel about doing an interview sometime? I promise I don’t have spooky force-you-to-answer-my-questions powers, unlike _somebody_ I could name.”

“U-um...”

His new reality returns to him all at once, and accompanying it comes a painful reminder of the headache he woke up with. The strings are growing too tangible, too heavy. He can’t spare the energy to reply as he tries to keep them away.

Unexpectedly, it’s Jon who comes to his rescue. “Georgie, I’m afraid that that’ll have to wait. I need to talk to Mr. Blackwood for a bit. Here, my office is just over there, you can go ahead, I’ll be there in a second.”

He doesn’t remember walking over, or closing the door behind him, but now he sits in a room that’s blessedly empty. Dimly, he can hear someone saying something in a low voice outside, a few murmurs replying. He doesn’t pay much attention to it, focusing instead on willing his headache away.

Jon finally enters the office, and he can barely look up at him. He walks around to his desk, seemingly studying Martin as he takes a seat.

After a moment's consideration, he speaks. “You’re hungry,” he says quietly.

“I- what? No, no I’m not.” The words are hard to force out, but it’s true. He’s always been a firm believer in breakfast being the most important meal of the day.

“I don’t mean regular hunger. I meant the other type- the type you’re going to have to get used to. It’s been over a week since the incident with Fairchild. Judging from your current state, I’m assuming that nothing else of that caliber has happened since then. _Is that correct?_ ”

“Yes.” The pressure in his head screams. “Could you **stop** doing that?”

“Alright, ok.” Jon holds up his hands in appeasement, looking at the air nervously. He seems to hesitate, like he’s weighing his options. Then he sighs.

“Martin, I am... very afraid of the Web, in particular. Both of the spiders, and the idea that someone might be controlling me without my knowledge.”

He doesn’t really notice that the pain has somewhat dimmed- he’s more confused about what Jon has decided to share with him. “Ok...? W-why are you telling me this...?”

“Well, generally, it’s more, um, filling if the Offer is taken from someone with genuine fear.”

It takes him a minute to realize what he’s trying to do. “I can’t do that! I, I don’t even really know how to, and also you’re my boss now? I think? Aren’t there, aren’t there temples and stuff for this?”

“Quite honestly, I don’t think you’d make it to a temple at this point. It’s... impressive that you managed to get here without harming anyone.” Jon looks like he swallowed a lemon while admitting that. “The further the hunger persists, the less control you’ll be in when you feed it. That’s why there’s a law in place that an avatar must feed at least once a week.” He scowls again. “Elias _said_ that he would send someone to your apartment, but apparently he forgot. This is why I would rather you do it right now, because I would be able to weather any mishaps better than the average human.”

That... makes sense, actually. Or maybe Martin’s too exhausted to find any faults with it. Either way, he nods.

“Ok. In that case-” Jon sighs, clearly apprehensive- “I am making this Offer in the name of the Mother, the god of control and manipulation. I give this, willingly, to the Little Spider, who serves this god through the aspect of the Underestimated and Unassuming.” He looks Martin in the eyes. “May you take what you need, and no more.”

Martin’s not really sure what he does next. All he knows is that he stops fighting to keep the strings airborne, and for a few seconds, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He doesn’t know where all the spiders came from, but surely they’re here to admire it, too. It’s just right: this is how things should always look. He thinks he could turn the entire world into this, if he tried hard enough.

Then he catches a glimpse of Jon’s expression underneath the pearl-white strands, sees the stark terror on it, and the guilt makes him rip away all of the perfection as quickly as it came.

“Shit- fuck- I’m sorry-”

Jon takes a coupe of deep, shuddering breaths. “It’s fine.” He stands abruptly, brushes past Martin to the office door. “Let me show you what our jobs actually are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I've never really liked vampire stories where someone lets someone willingly feed off of them. I mean, I respect the stories and the people who do like them and can kind of understand why, but I just don't personally like it.
> 
> Also me: *realizes that in writing this story I have made a similar dynamic* I am a fool. An absolute buffoon. I must go wear my clown makeup of shame now every time I write and have judgmental opinions


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin finally receives (part of) the bare minimum of job training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wassup I'm back again, my chromebook finally decided to give up on me. If you type documents on your phone, you are a god, and let me know what type of offerings and sacrifices I should give you so that you'll bless me with speedy thumbs. Anyways, please enjoy, and sorry if there's any errors!

Logically, Jon knows it had been the best move. Elias clearly hadn't sent anyone to Martin's apartment; why, Jon will never know (or Know. He's never been able to See too deep into Elias's mind. There's probably some Beholding reason, but he's never figured out how to bring it up). From the look of things, the hunger had progressed well past the point of safety- he did have to admit to being impressed with the man's self-control. Jon's not sure if he could have monitored himself like that, in the early days. Regardless, Martin seemed to be barely holding on, and Jon wasn't willing to risk either an incident on the streets or the health of his assistants. So it only made sense that he should give his own Offering- after all, he could (probably) handle himself if there was a problem.

Illogically, every ounce of his being is now yelling to get as far, far away from the other man as possible. It was somehow even worse than what he'd expected- eight arms and eyes, webs tightening like a trap, swarms of spiders appearing out of nowhere. And throughout it all, Martin just had a relaxed smile. The type of smile that looks warm and inviting, and in any other context, it might have even made him feel just a bit at ease. But right then, it was only wrong.

Still, he has a responsibility to teach Martin. Jon's heart continues to hammer in his chest, but he leads him back into the main office, and the other's stuttered apologies only stop when he glares at him with as many eyes as he can currently muster. Thankfully, nobody else is in the room at the moment. Speaking of which...  
Having finally gotten over his trepidition, Martin looks around in confusion at the empty space. "Where'd everyone go?"

"I sent them out." Jon struggles for a moment, wondering if he should tell him why. Georgie's always going on about "tact" and how he "needs more of it." But he shouldn't have to babysit the man; if anything, he should be fully aware of the dangers. "I didn't want them here in case it went wrong."

While Martin was alone in his office, he'd told the others his suspicions and asked them to clear out for a few minutes in the event that things got messy. He, admittedly, did not have a plan for what he'd do if it did, but at least Tim, Sasha, and Georgie would've been out of harm's way.

Martin's eyes widen. "Could, could it really have been that bad?"

"Yes." He sighs, and sends a text to Sasha that they can come back if they want while he talks. "Like I said, the more powerful your hunger, the less control you'll have when you feed it. So you must understand exactly how important it is to have at least one controlled Offer a week. The consequences are often dire... I'm sure you've heard of the Coroner Incident."

"...That thing with the End avatar?"

"Yes. Oliver Banks didn't accept his fate, and tried to run away from it. In the process, he refused to feed his god, and... well. You know the story. An entire boat of people dead."

It'd actually been right before Jon had received his own powers- one of the last statements Gertrude had taken. He'd just gotten a glimpse, but he wouldn't forget it: Oliver Banks, soaked to the bone from swimming across an entire ocean, only pausing in his stride to look straight at Jon. He had considered him for a second, shrugged, and said, "Good luck." Then he continued walking into the Archivist's office. Gertrude didn't share the statement with anyone until it was too late- the Coroner had already left, and she had let him.

She died a week later, and at that second Jon woke up as the Archives, drowning in a sea of infinite knowledge.

"That's... gods. Yeah, I'd really like to avoid killing anyone."

Truth, whispers the Beholding. Jon would enjoy it, if the Eye actually decided to give him useful information. At least he now knows that Martin isn't secretly a serial murderer.

"Yes, well. Just try to stick to a schedule. On the off chance that there's no willing sacrifices being Offered, that's what the unwilling quota is for. But it should only be used as a last resort."

Martin nods along as he speaks, eyes attentively fixed to him. Jon tries to make himself forget what he looked like when there was eight of them. "Well, I said I'd show you our jobs. Here."

He crosses over to one of the many filing boxes, and starts pulling out any that he Knows are Web themed. "You're probably already familiar with the first part of the duties of an Alliance member," he calls over his shoulder. "It's our responsibility to use our gifts to protect civilians from dangers, like rogue avatars and monsters. But since we don't have to do that 24/7, we have other duties we are expected to perform. Er, the Boneturner, for example, is technically a certified surgeon. Daisy- you met her the other day, she's a Hunter- is also a police officer. Simon, of course, is the painter. And I work here as a researcher, to better understand the Entities and how they function."

He pauses in his destruction of the filing system as his fingers brush over the statement of Ronald Sinclair, regarding his upbringing in a temple of the Web.

"Here." He hands it to Martin, who takes it with uncertainty. "For now, you're going to be working as an archival assistant, like Tim and Sasha. It's not ideal, but we're shorthanded anyways, and you might get some experience out of it." Jon hopes that Martin can't see how badly he's bullshitting right now- he's basically just repeated, verbatim, what Elias told him when explaining why Jon should be his mentor.

Thankfully, he seems assuaded as he nods and says, "Oh, that makes sense."

Thank the Eye. Jon did not want to pretend he knows what he's doing past the bare minimum.

He's about to start teaching him about what the position would entail- reading a statement, the follow up, basic stuff like that- when the doors to his Archives slam open, and Tim and Sasha walk in holding iced coffees.

"We're back! Georgie, the traitor, decided to abandon us-"

"She had an interview with Helen," Sasha interjects with an amused smile, letting Tim's dramatic monologue wash over them.

"-So now she's dead to me, but even through the haze of grief we managed to bring back some drinks. Jon, don't worry, I got your expresso with enough extra shots to kill a man- I mean that literally, I did the calculations for your weight and age, if you weren't an avatar I wouldn't let you get this at all, or your death would be on my concious- and Martin, wasn't sure what you'd like, but with my excellent detective skills-"

"-I reminded him that you got us all tea the other day."

"-With Sasha's excellent detective skills, she decided on a Chai tea." He hands them over with a flourish. "Enjoy!"

Jon takes his coffee- he's a grown man, he can have as much caffeine as he wants- and watches as Martin does the same, obviously somewhat baffled by Tim's overall... Timness. He can sympathize. He can appreciate it now, but if Sasha hadn't been there from the start to balance him out, he has no doubts it would have taken even longer for them to become friends. He clears his throat.

"Thank you, I appreciate it. Now, I was just showing Martin how to go through a statement, so-"

"Wait, really? Jon, I love you, but why would you start off with that? Out of all the parts of our job, that's the most boring."

He knows Tim didn't mean it that way, but he can't help but feel a little offended, seeing as the statements are an extension of him. "I- they are not boring, they are a very important part of both our jobs and feeding the Entities, and-"

"No, I'm with Tim on this one, actually," Sasha chimes in. "It is important, but if an emergency situation came up, it'd be better to have him ready for that." Unlike Tim, Sasha is a true worshipper of the Eye, and more finely attuned to it because of that. The look she gives him is understanding, but firm. And, unfortunately like Tim, because you don't be friends with him for years without picking up a few traits, she adds mischieviously, "Also, that's no way to hook someone on a job. You have to show 'em all the flashy bits first, and then break out the paperwork."

"Exactly! Alright, c'mon, Martin, I'm sorry we left you to the Beholding's weird fixation on organization, but follow me and I'll make it up to you. This way!" He practically dashes down the halls.

Sasha lets him go for a bit, then leans over to Jon and Martin. "I told him not to, but he did take a sip of your coffee, Jon," she states. "He'll probably be like this for a few hours before crashing on the break room couch. Might end up staying overnight again."

"Oh, that explains it," Martin says quietly. "I was trying to figure if he'd been tampered down a bit last week, or just really dialed up today..." He trails off, seemingly not having realized he'd been talking out loud. "Um. Should I follow him?"

Jon sighs, grabs his coat, and sets off after his assistant. "He's right, this is important stuff too," he says. "We might as well all go. Are you- I mean, I'd like to know if you're coming, Sasha."

"Right behind you. Somebody needs to control him."

They find Tim waiting impatiently at the entrance to the tunnels.

"Now," he begins, "This is the most important component of the Magnus Alliance."

Martin looks at the tiny trapdoor, at Tim, who does not elaborate, at Jon, who knows that there's some truth in that answer and so says nothing, and finally Sasha, who takes pity on him.

"It's the tunnel system," she explains. "Mostly Buried, a lot of Web, and some Spiral. It can take you all over the city, even some key points outside of it. It's one of the ways we get our people to situations as fast as possible."

"The other is directly through the Distortion's hallways,"Jon adds. "But I would personally recommend you use the tunnels. The hallways are disorientating, and neither of its avatars have much of a sense of... urgency. Not to mention, with the tunnels having some elements of the Mother in them, you might find them easier to navigate."

"We only really use the hallways for three things: if you need to get out of somewhere quickly, if there's too many people using the tunnels, or if you need to get someplace the tunnels can't bring you."

"Like if it's too Vast orientated, or some random place outside of London. Shouldn't come up too often, though, so don't worry about it."

For half a second, Martin looks a little overwhelmed by the onslaught of information being thrown at him. Then, as quickly as it came, Jon watches as he rearranges his facial expressions, his body language, how he holds himself. The strings, which had retreated since his sacrifice, come back, but they don't try to attach themselves to the others; instead, they rope around Martin himself, touching up his smile, his posture. Jon is absurdly reminded of applying makeup.

"Oh, that makes sense," he says again. Jon wonders if this had happened the first time he said it, and he just hadn't noticed. Should he say something? He clearly didn't understand any of it.

No. If he chooses to lie instead of asking for help, that's his problem. Once again, Jon is not here to babysit the man.

He walks forward, and throws open the trapdoor. "One more thing," because if he didn't say this, it's grounds for a lawsuit. "Try to avoid going in alone. Sometimes things get in that shouldn't be there. Usually they're not too harmful, but... it's best to be safe."

"Not harmful to you," Tim mutters. "That Not-Them nearly killed Sasha."

"Please, it didn't stand a chance! It only got close because I thought Danny was playing a prank."

"Danny can do so much better than that! Also, he wouldn't get himself stuck in some table."

"Well-"

"Who's Danny?" Tim and Sasha stop mid-argument, turning to look at Martin like they only just remembered he's there. Tim's smile is still on his face, but it's turned into the one he throws on to hide his true emotions. Sasha's expression, meanwhile, has frozen.

"Danny's my brother," Tim says easily. Jon's known him long enough to hear the nervousness beneath the tone, though. He can understand why: Tim and Danny have an... unusual relationship, to say the least. From what he Knows, Tim was kidnapped by the Circus of Other when he was very young. It's rare for someone of that age to be able to escape, but what made it especially so strange was that he was found tightly clutching the hand of his own doppelganger.

Jon has met Danny before, and he's definitely some sort of creature of the Stranger. Glassy eyes, skin texture just a bit wrong, an uncanny ability to change his appearance at will. But despite both him and Tim refusing to talk about their time in the Circus or how they met (and he knows better than to try asking), they've made it clear that whatever they went through, it was more binding than blood.

Unfortunately, people tend to be poorly biased when it comes to those who were never human at all. The Stoker brothers tend to hide their past when possible because of it. Even such a small slip-up is enough to make them nervous.

Thankfully, Martin has the supernatural abillity to read a room. "Ah, ok! Heh- wish I had some siblings. I'm an only child. Anyways, should we head in, then? I'd like to see how they work."

Jon steps aside, so that Martin has a clear path. "Of course," he says. "Lead the way."

They enter the tunnels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon: thank god that this avatar of the Web, who has admitted to me about lying to people for profit, believes my bullshit
> 
> Martin, who saw through it immediately: aw fuck hes trying so hard I might as well let him have this one
> 
> Thanks for reading! Also, didn't know how to fit it in, but Jared Hopworth was given an honourary MD after gaining his powers. So, technically, that's *Dr.* Hopworth to you.
> 
> And feel free to add on to the list of jobs that various avatars hold! I, personally, am imagining that John Haan is showing up to a new fast food restaurant with a resume every couple of weeks. The manager, with no choice but to hire him because he's basically the god of take away food, then has to deal with their new chef being an avatar of the Flesh until he gets bored.


End file.
